- end_line
- 11953
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.846Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 11907
- text
- shark, showed tiers of teeth, _“that,_ ladies, is a
line-of-battle-ship, the North Carolina.”
“Oh, dear!”—and “Oh my!”—ejaculated the ladies, and— “Lord, save us,”
responded an old gentleman, who was a member of the Peace Society.
Hurra! hurra! and ten thousand times hurra! down goes our old anchor,
fathoms down into the free and independent Yankee mud, one handful of
which was now worth a broad manor in England.
The Whitehall boats were around us, and soon, our cabin passengers were
all off, gay as crickets, and bound for a late dinner at the Astor
House; where, no doubt, they fired off a salute of champagne corks in
honor of their own arrival. Only a very few of the steerage passengers,
however, could afford to pay the high price the watermen demanded for
carrying them ashore; so most of them remained with us till morning.
But nothing could restrain our Italian boy, Carlo, who, promising the
watermen to pay them with his music, was triumphantly rowed ashore,
seated in the stern of the boat, his organ before him, and something
like “Hail Columbia!” his tune. We gave him three rapturous cheers, and
we never saw Carlo again.
Harry and I passed the greater part of the night walking the deck, and
gazing at the thousand lights of the city.
At sunrise, we _warped_ into a berth at the foot of Wall-street, and
knotted our old ship, stem and stern, to the pier. But that knotting of
_her,_ was the unknotting of the bonds of the sailors, among whom, it
is a maxim, that the ship once fast to the wharf, they are free. So
with a rush and a shout, they bounded ashore, followed by the
tumultuous crowd of emigrants, whose friends, day-laborers and
housemaids, stood ready to embrace them.
But in silent gratitude at the end of a voyage, almost equally
uncongenial to both of us, and so bitter to one, Harry and I sat on a
chest in the forecastle. And now, the ship that we had loathed, grew
lovely in our eyes, which lingered over every familiar old timber; for
the scene of suffering is a scene of joy when the suffering is past;
and the silent reminiscence of hardships departed, is sweeter than the
presence of delight.
CHAPTER LXI.
REDBURN AND HARRY, ARM IN ARM, IN HARBOR
- title
- Chunk 3